


The Angel Heard

by breakneck



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Bodyswap, But I figure I want to make it findable, Consensual Kink, Crossdressing, Crossdressing Kink, Eventual Smut, Gay Sex, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, I don't consider this crossdressing really, Internalized Homophobia, It's all about using kink to be comfortable enough to engage, It's just NOT vanilla basically, Just you know the game has to change a little, M/M, Mutual Pining, Naga, Nobody's gonna get actual hurt, Personal Growth, Slow Burn, Snakes, So it'll still be sweet, The Gardener - Freeform, Velvet Underground - Freeform, Yeah okay so it's kind of a songfic partway through, possible snake weirdness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-05-16 12:35:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19318297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breakneck/pseuds/breakneck
Summary: Aziraphale is trying to come to the conclusion of an argument he's been having with himself since the world began.((If you've ever read anything by me, I'm back on my bullshit. My chapters are short, but dense. I'm a short story writer, I work as much meaning into as few lines as possible. If you haven't read anything by me, I promise an interesting fic format that if you don't like it, won't take much of your time.))





	1. Slithering Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> (In the birthday party magic scene in the book, one of the children says that not only is Aziraphale bad at magic, but probably a faggot as well. ...I have a lot of feelings about that. So, I let it be a jumping off point for some things that have been swirling around in my head for days. This is following tv show versions of events until I careen widely otherwise.)

He couldn't remember the first time he'd heard it, or more precisely, a word of it's ilk. But he could remember the sting of it. Could remember the far-flung hatred of it. The way it bruised your core in a way that few other insults could, especially to someone like himself; he was a principality after all, the affairs of humans didn't bother him much. 

-But that word rankled him, even out of the mouth of a child-maybe even especially from a child. It was the injustice of it, of someone weilding such a precisely wounding weapon against you that had no inkling what they were doing. But though his hand stuttered in the air for a moment, he still put the rabbit down gently, still in the following moment when young Warlock grabbed the gun from the federal agent standing nearest had the wherewithal to change the bullet to a harmless stream of water when Warlock squeezed the trigger, unaware after all, of the repercussions of such a thing. Even though Crowley, of all people, would have been fine. His back was to the child, he wouldn't have seen until it was too late, and Warlock had possibly discorporated him.

They left as the party got out of hand, Aziraphale pulling the limp little dove from his coat pocket that had been squished in the rigamarole. He tapped it gently and away it flew, hopefully to a safer place away from screaming children.

The hellhound didn't show. 

Crowley put on a confident voice when he checked in, but he was scared. Aziraphale was too. There were days between them and the apocalypse. Aziraphale knew where he was headed when the sea boiled and the trumpets sounded. He didn't want to think about what would happen to Crowley. 

\---------------------------------------------------------------------

Aziraphale couldn't breathe. It's not like he needed to, not really, but he had carried this body with him for so long, and he was quite attached to it.

 

He opened his eyes. And all was darkness rather than light. True darkness really, he knew that no light would penetrate it before he even tried. 

 

He opened his mouth, and the grip around his neck allowed only a soft moan to escape his lips. There was a pressure sliding across him too heavy to be silk and the part of his mind trying to disassociate through this wondered what was so familiar about whatever was edging ever closer to crushing his windpipe...and also apparently his arms...and legs...ever tighter. 

 

He knew the rasp of scale on scale. 

 

"C-Crowley" he choked.

 

No reply but a rippling pulse of muscle.

 

Aziraphale couldn't breathe.

 

He couldn't see Crowley's yellow eyes in the dark, he could only feel his sinewy body pressing in on him from all sides. All that existed was his shallow breathing and his own heartbeat crashing in his ears. Even his warmth was being leached from his body by the great serpent winding slowly around him.

 

He managed to rally to press out Crowley's name once more. 

 

The resulting thrill through the massive snake discorporated him.

 

Aziraphale's eyes snapped open with a gasp. He lay in his own bed, recovering from a nightmare he hadn't needed to sleep, unsure of where he was and how much of what had proceeded was real for a beat. He remembered the strain against his neck and shuddered. Crowley...Crowley would never-

 

There was something else.

 

"A-angel Lust." He sputtered to himself. "When the spinal cord is affected, when a death is violent, there is a ...priapsis."  
"It's only natural." He soothed.  
His member stood at attention, having not truly been violently killed. The Angel lied to himself as he had lied many times before.


	2. Mr. Mephistopheles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there's mutual pining.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((I should probably have added a note last time. Angel Lust is a real thing that can happen to bodies with penises. Apparently it was common in hangings because of the way the circulatory system is laid out. If a death was violent it may ...engorge the penis with blood causing that issue. I figured if it's something I picked up in my wild youth of reading anything I could get my hands on, surely someone with 6,000 years of reading everything could have come across it, especially since apparently there was quite a bit of medieval artwork of a certain lord and savior with such a thing.))

    The following night was no better. Aziraphale had still been puzzling over the dream when they pulled up to the old hospital. They must find this Antichrist and quickly! All was well until they stepped out of the car and someone shot them with paintballs. He had thought at first, that it was serious. Then came annoyance. A jacket ruined after having it for so many decades! Crowley suggested that he miracle it away, but then he'd know the stain was there, underneath. So Crowley blew the paint away. He'd been so overjoyed. But thinking about it now, it was basically the same as if he had done it, wasn't it? But it wasn't. Not at all. When he took the jacket off later at home and remembered, he smiled. Crowley had cared about a silly old jacket. But he hadn't wanted to be thanked. He'd said "Nice is a four-letter word!" He'd been adamant. It was sensible really; never know who's listening. 

 

    That was the trouble wasn't it? No matter where one was, someone might be listening. Someone might hear; might see. You'd think after all this time, he'd have learned to live with it, and he had, but he also hadn't. Sure, it was automatic almost to correct people, -except if he was really enjoying himself. Then he'd be in the midst of some delightful story of Crowley's and someone would make a comment, and then he'd be brought right back to Earth. Where he was always on duty. Where there was to be no fraternization with the enemy, or anyone else for that matter. He had to remind Crowley all the time, that they couldn't fraternize, that he couldn't fall. 

-There was also the matter that Crowley had laid hands on him, he thought to himself as they drove back in the Bentley. That had been... unexpected. He had pushed Aziraphale roughly against the wall, leaned in very close, such that Aziraphale could see his eyes blazing through his glasses. Aziraphale had crossed a line, perhaps. They both teased each other, but this time was different. Maybe he was stressed having lost the child? But as Aziraphale tried to puzzle out the day's events he played that stretch of time back over and over, their faces so close together, Crowley's hands at his neck. Crowley's hot breath in his face, serious and menacining, and in control.

Even after finding the book, even knowing he had found the boy, as he raked hia eyes from prophecy to prophecy, he searched for mentions of Crowley and himself. And he prayed. He of course didnt want to defy the plan, but he couldn't understand it! After all this time working together under their Agreement, he knew that what he'd said about Crowley was true; he was nice. 

 

-And what's more, he knew he wasn't entirely good. 

 

Oh he wanted to be! He had tried so hard! Especially in the beginning! He had stood guard well over the garden! But then, there came the serpent and the temptation and Adam and Eve and they weren't really prepared for his wiles!

 

And he would never admit it, but he might have, just a little bit, deep down agreed that it wasn't fair, not for a first offence, not when you couldn't understand, and they literally couldn't understand the difference between doing the right thing, and doing the wrong, not like himself or Crowley. How could it be fair to toss them out?

 

So he made a mistake, only a week in, he had given away his only possession, the flaming sword with which he was to guard the gate. 

 

Worse than that, the flood! Here they go cramming all these bloody animals into this boat and here comes Crowley making him name the deed. And how could it be that they all deserved it? All these people who had never heard anything.

 

And worst of all. A thought so scandalous when he'd think it he would recoil, even in his own mind: maybe somebody like Crowley didn't deserve it either. Sure, Crowley did evil, but Crowley did evil generally in a way that annoyed, not in a way that really hurt people most of the time. 

 

And anyway, he and Crowley were disturbingly similar. Not on the surface, mind you, but underneath, where it counted. Because all Crowley had done (according to Crowley, mind you) was ask too many questions. 

 

Aziraphale, he didn't ask questions per se, but sometimes late at night, when he had just finished a book, he would find them tumbling into his mind unbidden. Questions about the purpose of it all, about whether or not any of it was really worth doing, whether there was a point to all this, whether he should trust himself, and again, whether it was that there had been a mistake. Crowley... He was nice. That was the real trouble. If Crowley was a demon, if that's what a demon was, well, he was such pleasant company!  

 

* * *

 

 

Crowley was not nice. 

 

He couldn't be. Even with all the other that happened, when he went home to scheme it kept drumming in his head. Nice. Nice. Nice. He yelled at his plants. Nice. Nice. Nice.

 

That was exactly the sodding problem. He wanted to be, but he wasn't nice. 

 

He wanted- 

 

He needed-

 

He needed to plan!

 

It was incredibly old-fashioned, but he pulled out pen and paper and started to write.

 

"When I fell-" he scratched. 

 

He sighed.

 

"They took all my wings but two" He clenched his fine black pen, the kind that can write underwater. 

 

But, in a fine curling script he kept at it until he had written:

 

"When I fell

They took all my wings but two

Pulled them from me so I could not fly

Let the remaining pair turn black

Like frostbite In Dante's hell

For I was so far from God

 

But I see you

And you wear your wings so well

And you shine with that holy light

And I want to warm myself in your glow

But there's another wretched part of me

That wants to pluck your wings

To make you fall to see

If you would bear the black just as well

 

I would treasure every insurrection

Every clever power play

Because I know they don't deserve you

They didn't pluck your wings, they caged you

In a prison with no name and no bars

Yet how you strain!

I long to cut your chains!

 

I want you down in the detritus

on equal footing

In the swill you would see

I am a pearl made beautiful by pain

You would know my shine

And you would not despair

How you would glisten in the heap!"

 

He stared. It had been a while since he'd written a poem. He'd gotten a taste for it when he'd helped old Bill. Marlowe's Mephistopheles had been a bit of a hindrance; Bill hadn't wanted to sell his soul and convincing him that his deal wouldn't doom him had been difficult; but he'd managed a commendation a little later for his trade in Macbeth. 

 

Crowley liked the modern stuff, less fiddly, more raw. 

 

But this...he snapped his fingers. Let the paper ignite. He pushed himself up from the table and left the room.

 


	3. The Secret Garden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (ATTENTION: This note is a more specific trigger warning and note of advice where to skip to for the specific content being mentioned. Here there be light spoilers. The internalized homophobia rears its ugly head in this chapter. Might be a little rough if you're ex-christian, but I promise to smooth it over soon, because we deserve it! The Internalized homophobia shit will be before the first page break. This chapter may also be difficult for abuse survivors, no one is being abused, but the reaction to sex initiation may be hard to read if you have. Again, it'll be alright, but if you want to skip the heavier parts, skip to the first page break. What came before was a brief description of an encounter Aziraphale attempted to have in Rome, but was thwarted by his own internalized homophobia.)

There was the one time. 

 

He might have spent a little too long among the elite debating in Rome.  A gentleman with a lithe body had approached him. He had been impressed with how he had comported himself. And Aziraphale might have been a little innebriated. He might have muttered to himself, "When in Rome, do as the Romans do."

 

They came to a secluded place piled with pillows and furs. And the fellow was thin and in the red lamplight he might have been someone else. He let himself be led. Let the hand be warm against his skin. He was seated with the young man between his legs. He was seated and the man put his lips to his face. And the warmth was nice. And the softness was nice. But something was stirring.

 

With a deft motion the man pushed Aziraphale down among the cushions, snaked his tongue into his mouth.

 

Aziraphale went cold. 

 

He felt for a horrible, dizzying moment that he might have been discorporated. He...was detached somehow, as if he were watching the proceedings from a distance. The man was sliding his hands along his body. The man was smiling into his kisses.

 

"Thou shalt not lie with mankind, as with womankind: it is abomination" Aziraphale whispered as the man's mouth was planting kisses on his throat. He would later remember how the words had buzzed against the man's lips. The man hadn't heard.

 

"For whosoever shall commit any of these abominations, even the souls that commit them shall be cut off from among their people." Aziraphale said. He sat up abruptly. Gave a stunted apology. Hid the tent he was pitching with a wing, pulled himself up into who he should be and left that place. 

 

Later, years later, there were parts of the ordeal he would draw forth. The warmth. The brush of lips. Sometimes he would find himself weeping from it. Sometimes to his shame, he would cobble together these spare experiences, whispers in doorways, the off times in centuries past when a stranger would be brash, and tell himself a story. A story in which he would find the tangle of red hair and he would press him close. 

 

It never went very far. He had a hard time weaving the whole story, but he would try. Over the eons his fingers had become clever; they could do the work his half-finished story could not provide. It was in those moments alone in the dark, he pretended that he was not himself. That it was not his body. They were not the actions of a weapon of God, not an angel or a man, but a beast satisfying some deep struggle inside. The quaking release of it brought only more shame. His superiors might not check in, but God would know. 

 

He knew that desire was the same to God as the deed itself. But he couldn't see past what he should do about it. He reasoned round and round with himself that having never actually committed the act was better than having done it, but he knew it was all the same. 

 

* * *

 

The world hadn't ended, had it? 

 

They stood on the threshold. Crowley had pushed the door open for Aziraphale and stood behind him waiting for him to enter. Aziraphale wasn't sure what he thought would happen. Or rather, what he would do. 

 

He straightened up and stepped into the apartment. As soon as there was space, Crowley entered, walked through the doorway, still ajar,  pulled off his glasses, set them on the large black desk, and pinched the bridge of his nose, his back to Aziraphale.

 

Aziraphale followed, took in the vast expanse of black, accented here and there with treasures. 

 

He laughed. 

 

Crowley flinched, turned to look at him. 

 

"Oh. Oh no! It's just- it's so different than the shop! It's so spacious!" Aziraphale said.

 

"Yeah?"

 

He stepped further into the room, noticed a flash of green peaking around the corner. He immediately stepped towards the room, even at night, clearly lush and verdant, and into a distressing puddle on the floor.

 

He looked down. He sniffed. He felt bile rise. 

 

"Oh heavens!" He swore.  His eyes darted around. The bucket in evidence, the tartan thermos on the desk. 

 

Crowley seemed small in the emptiness of the room. For his part, he swallowed hard and turned away. 

 

"If you wouldn't mind, I didn't get so far as to consider how I should clean it up." His shoulders were high around his neck.

 

"Oh, Crowley I-" Aziraphale spluttered. He snapped his fingers and miracled the whole mess away, thermos, bucket, and swill. Then in the same motion full tilt moved towards the desk. 

 

"Angel it's-" Crowley managed before Aziraphale had wrapped his arms around him, and lifted him to sit on the desk. 

 

"Are you hurt?" Aziraphale demanded. His hands pressing along Crowley's arms as he leaned this way and that to inspect him. Crowley shook his head, body still taut, eyes averted, leaning away from Aziraphale's touch.

 

"What happened?" Aziraphale's voice was low and sharp. He caught Crowley's gaze and held it.

 

"Cashed in my insurance policy." Crowley jerked his chin towards the door. "They caught on, came looking for me, so I set a trap." He let his shoulders fall. "You ever see what that stuff'll do to a wretch like me?" Crowley slumps forward now, his face in Aziraphale's shoulder. 

 

The world had ended and all the old rules with it.

 

Aziraphale wrapped his arms around Crowley and held him tightly. 

 

"Crowley. I'm so glad you're safe. I don't know what I'd do without you. 

 

Aziraphale felt as if his knees might buckle. He shifted his feet and removed a hand from Crowley's back to steady himself. 

 

"Steady there, Angel. We've had a long day. We can talk about this somewhere we don't have to stand." 

 

He led Aziraphale deeper into the apartment and was gratified when the angel murmured stunned appreciation of his plants. They had to stop for several moments for Aziraphale to touch them and admire them. He noticed that they trembled in his hand, that they stood up straighter when  they entered. Aziraphale blushed when he wondered how many people, if any, had seen this room other than Crowley.

 

"It's a positive jungle!" Aziraphale said straightening up. He was flanked on either side by the lushest plants in a hundred miles.

 

"Jungle? No, this is the most garden you can have in a London flat." Crowley dipped his head and peered at Aziraphale, his yellow eyes glinting.

A smaller plant, a Pothos (Ahem; Devil's Ivy) began trembling in it's pot. An older, most established Dracanai (Dragon Plant) put out a frond to steady it.

Aziraphale's gaze met Crowley's, his eyes wet. 

Crowley came forward, laced his fingers into Aziraphale's, and like a lamb, led him from the "garden". 


	4. As You Wish

He had led him from the garden, to the grotto he had made. A warm bedroom in cool black. A bed big enough that Aziraphale needn't touch him if he didn't wish. Plush pillows if he wished to put a sword between them, heated floors and heated blankets for a bachelor reptile. There was a sense of running water somewhere, a not unpleasant humidity to the room, though whether there was a water feature or not, Aziraphale couldn't say. 

Crowley was now wearing silk pajamas, black, of course. He removed his expensive watch and laid it on one of a pair of nightstands (minimalist, also black). He gestured and from an antique black wardrobe came a pair of pajamas; Egyptian cotton, cream in color. They came to rest folded neatly on the side of the bed Aziraphale might presumably use. 

"You can, if you want-" Crowley muttered, pointed his chin towards the bathroom door of the master suite.

Aziraphale took them, crossed into the other room and found a small steel waterfall in a very modern bathroom. There were a few plants scattered tastefully about the room who unfurled themselves nervously as he entered and then seemed to visibly relax. He muttered encouragement to them, told them they were beautiful, and fumbled with every single button. 

Finally, he gave up, and miracled his way into proper dress, his own clothes folded neatly in a bundle he balanced on a sharp-looking sink. He realized belatedly that Crowley mostly miracled his clothes into being, often had they debated the benefits and detriments of this, but he had a pair of pajamas specifically for Aziraphale. The top of the breast pocket even had a little lining of tan tartan. This unmanned him. He gripped the edges of the pristine sink to steady himself. He caught himself in the mirror and wondered what he was doing. Before he could wonder too much he grabbed his clothing and reentered the bedroom. 

Crowley had turned back the covers and slid into bed. He was sitting up against the headboard studiously looking at his phone. The sheets were black silk, and the lights were low. 

"You can hang them if you like or you can put them in the drawer there." Crowley said gesturing to the wardrobe and the nightstand. Aziraphale trundled to the side of the bed and placed his clothes within, and shoes next to it. He slowly turned towards the bed. His breath hitched. 

"Angel," Crowley said, putting down his phone, "you don't have to do this. I can just as easily bed down anywhere in here. I just thought-"

"No." The force in his own voice surprised Aziraphale. 

"Stay." He whispered. Crowley nodded once slowly never breaking eye contact; his mouth slightly open as if there was more he would say if only he could find the words.

Aziraphale pulled back the covers, climbed into bed reclining against the headrest as well. He pulled his fists into his lap and stared straight ahead. 

Crowley was twisted towards him, watching carefully, but made no move.

"I used to wonder what would happen, but now that I'm here I'm not so sure at all. After all that we've come through, after everything we've done, I'm ashamed to say, I'm scared." Aziraphale trembled. 

"I'm off the path now, and I don't know the way." He said squeezing the blanket.

Crowley scooted closer, put his hand on Aziraphale's shoulder. 

"It's alright. I'm scared too." Crowley said. Aziraphale jerked his head towards Crowley. 

"You? Scared?" Aziraphale gasped.

"Angel, I don't think you realize just how brave you've been today." Crowley scooted in closer, his left hand still on Aziraphale's shoulder, and took one of Aziraphale's hands with his own right hand.  Aziraphale stared up at him, head bowed. He slowly rubbed little circles with his thumb as he began to speak.

"I didn't know what could happen to me, but you do. You know exactly what the consequences of your actions could be and you did it anyway. I'm-and I bloody mean what I'm saying, I'm so proud of you. I'm glad to have you on my side." Crowley said.

"Your side?" Aziraphale squeezed Crowley's hand as he spoke.

"Our side. Me and you and the people we protect."

"Protect? Angel I tried, but at the end of the world I'd have left every single one of those rotters behind but I couldn't leave without you." Crowley is very still. He held Aziraphale's hand and Aziraphale's gaze.

"Oh." Aziraphale whispered. He paused. "You were drinking when I found you." It was a statement.

"Yes." Crowley said gently.

"Because you couldn't find me." Aziraphale said. Crowley only nodded.

You thought-!" Aziraphale said.

"Yes." Crowley said, his voice faint.

"Crowley, I'm so sorry! Shadwell caught me contacting the Metaton and- I never would have on purpose..." Aziraphale trailed off.

Crowley closed the gap between their bodies now, legs touching and moved his hand from Aziraphale's shoulder to his face. 

"Angel, you faced down the army of heaven today. Traveled London in the borrowed body of a painted lady of the night! You were completely ready to shoot a kid in the face if it meant subverting the apocalypse. Nobody could say you don't care about the world." Crowley said.

"It's not the world-well it is the world some, but Crowley it's...you. You are the world, at least to me. I'd face down hell for you if I thought it would help!" Aziraphale said, balling his free hand into a fist and slamming it into his leg. 

"I- Aziraphale... That's it! That's how we keep from getting murdered! We swap! Anything the demons can do you can withstand, and anything heaven can do I can live through! That's what she means when she says to choose our faces!"

"So we would...switch bodies?" Aziraphale said. He fretted with the fabric of his pajamas..

"In the morning, we'll switch and then when the powers that be come to punish us, we'll be fine. I can't wait to see Gabriel's smug little face when he can't push you around like he wants! That wretched bastard!" Crowley crowed.

Aziraphale beamed and nodded. 

"Yes, yes, yes!" He said.

He threw his arms around Crowley. Absolutely wrapped himself around him. 

Crowley hugged him back, gripped him tightly, let his tongue slip out briefly, and got a whiff of his glorious golden hair.

Crowley pulled back. Screwed his eyes shut and then snapped them open with a determined set to his jaw.

"Angel, no, Aziraphale, I just want you to know. I mean, have you seen the Princess Bride? That's a stupid question, you don't watch tellie, what I mean is, Aziraphale you realize that, I guess what I'm saying is, I have been trying to show you something for six thousand years and I don't know if the message got through."

"Hamlet." Said Aziraphale.

"What?"

"The air raid and the church." Said Aziraphale.

"..." Said Crowley.

"Chocolates and car rides and wine." said Aziraphale.

"//////" Blushed Crowley.

"Custom pajamas in a wardrobe I suspect you barely have use for." Aziraphale beamed.

"Get on with it, Angel." Crowley croaked, looking every inch the Saint Sebastian pierced with arrows.

Aziraphale inclined his head and kissed him square on the lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: "That day, she was amazed to discover that when he was saying "As you wish," what he meant was, "I love you." And even more amazing was the day she realized she truly loved him back." - The Princess Bride
> 
> P.S. Next chapter we'll finally get to the physical intimacy. I'm curious to see how it will be received. I think it might be kinkier than I've lead you to believe, but also, I didn't want to spoil it with my tags ;)


	5. Pushing Daisies

They had retired after the Ritz to Aziraphale's bookshop. Aziraphale had gone on ahead to sort out a bottle of port and Crowley had stayed behind. He was attempting to to screw up his courage to try again. In the end Aziraphale had rebuffed him the night before. The way he had frozen under his touch had unnerved Crowley. Aziraphale may have escaped the wrath of heaven, but they had their hooks buried deep. It wouldn't be overnight that he would be comfortable. Still, he was almost relieved that the pressure was off to perform. Surely he'd spent quite a lot of time thinking about what he'd do if he could lay hands on Aziraphale, but thought and deed were two different things.

 

When he entered and they were alone, he locked the door and set the sign to closed with a wave of his hand, not so that Aziraphale couldn't get away, he could easily unlock the door, but so that privacy would be maintained. There was a gulf between them. Crowley tread carefully till he was a little too far away for a polite conversation.

"Angel," Crowley said softly. 

"Yes?" Aziraphale said, barely above a whisper himself. He straightened up in his seat and put the dusty bottle he was contemplating on the table beside him.

Crowley averted his eyes. 

After all this time. After all this wretched hope. He just, couldn't he just?

"In the interest of fair play, I have to...confess something."

Aziraphale leaned forward and absently ran his tongue across his bottom lip, his brow furrowed.

"I'm not. I'm not what you'd call normal." Crowley winced.

"Well of course not! Neither of us are!"

"No! I mean-" Crowley turns his face back sharply  His shoulders raised, his fingers curled into fists.

"Aziraphale, do I look like a demon to you?!" He spat gesturing to his body.

"Whatever do you mean?" Aziraphale sat back, unsure.

"I mean- really think. Do I look like Hastur? Or Ligur? Beezlebub?"

An awful pause.

"But you're a serpent? I had always assumed..."

"Assumed what?!" Crowley hissed, stepping forward.

Another pause. This time it was Aziraphale who looked away. 

"I thought," Aziraphale coughed and dipped his head.

"I thought that they sent you to Earth because you were the most beautiful." He said in a rush and looked up.

 

A mortal wound. Crowley's eyes stung. 

 

"Beautiful?" His voice cracked.

"I know it's not your moniker, but I always felt that if anyone should be called "a star of the morning" it should be you." Aziraphale rose from his seat.

"But he fell! He's no "morning star" now; you've seen him! Great red mess is what!" He sweeps his arms out to show how large and mess-like.

"I didn't know you before. When you came up to me in the garden, I thought, well, that it must be you." Aziraphale took a step forward and closed the distance between them. 

"The morning star?" Crowley's voice was small.

"Well, those stars of yours were flaming." Carefully, though his hands were trembling,  Aziraphale reached up to remove the shades from Crowley's face.

Crowley froze, allowed them to be be lifted. To both of their surprise, he was crying for the second time in a millennia.

"There. Flaming like anything." Aziraphale breathed. He slowly lowered his arm, taking the shades with it.

Crowley realized that the words sounded vaguely familiar. He felt somewhere deep inside that he was wriggling along quite content and had come upon something now and wasn't quite sure how to respond. This felt like a threat, but this was a friendly face.

Miserable triumph, to get this far, and lose him, Crowley thought to himself but plunged ahead.

"Aziraphale, I- I hide mine. Unlike a lot of them, my punishments are easily hidden in shades and trousers." He gulped. He didn't want to lose what he had, what he'd fought so hard to keep, but, maybe-

"Trousers?" Aziraphale asked.

"I'm a snake. Bloody heaven I'm a snake! I can change most of that easily, but I can't switch all of it. I- I've got some messed up anatomy. I've got- I've got-" Crowley sputtered trying to climb a mountain he'd been afraid of for a long time.

"Two?" Finished Aziraphale. Crowley reared back.

"Two?!? How?!?"

"Crowley, we swapped. You gave me yours, I gave you mine." Aziraphale gestured downward to indicate himself.

"Oh." Crowley said. He turned his face away.

Aziraphale's free hand stuttered a bit, remembering a thousand hurled insults, but gingerly cupped Crowley's cheek. With one thumb he brushed a tear away.

"Crowley, you are a charmer, surely you didn't think-"

"But," Crowley cringed.

"Nonsense! Crowley, I dream about you! I dream about being wrapped up tight in your coils." Aziraphale turned Crowley's cheek for him so that he could look him in the eyes. 

"Your anatomy doesn't scare me! Quite the opposite! If you'd gone the other way, stayed Crawley-been a worm for all I care, I'd have loved you! Certainly you were my temptation, Crowley, but I thought I was never going to be able to have you." He brushes his thumb just under Crowley's eye.

"You knew?" Crowley spluttered.

"I've been Mr. Fell for a long time. Like a child with a diary writing what my name might be over and over through the centuries." Aziraphale bridged the small remaining gap between them and leaned his forehead against Crowley's.

"It's not you that's the problem. I want you. It's just complicated. I know that technically we have to make an effort, but I am quite sure my side doesn't approve of relations." He let it hang between them. He wasn't sure if he could continue or what he'd say if he did keep talking.

"I know they aren't- that it doesn't apply anymore, but it's hard. There's a barrier there that I keep slamming up against." Aziraphale clenches his fist.

"Angel, it's fine. It doesn't matter to me. I'm over the moon that we're here. I don't care if you ever want to be touched that way, I love you." Crowley said, shocking himself with his boldness.  His yellow eyes were burning a hole into Aziraphale's with his intense eye contact.

"Crowley! I do too!  I just. I couldn't give you what you wanted. I was so afraid you'd never want to be with me and I couldn't just. I couldn't." Aziraphale said. He fought through the sentences bravely,  but then was crying hard, unable to speak. Crowley held him tightly so that when Aziraphale continued he was speaking into Crowley's hair.

"When I find myself with someone, I freeze. I've never been able to- to go very far with someone else. I just stop. It's awful. I want to so badly, I want to be with you, but I can't."

Crowley went very still as he mulled the problem over. The only part of him moving was a hand soothing Aziraphale's back.

"Crowley I just wish I could show you what I'd do to you, if I could. I want to, I just can't." He finished.

"...Alright." Crowley started, "Then let's swap. You can touch me all over and I don't have to even be in the room if you don't want.' Crowley leaned back, grinning lasciviously. 

"What? You mean-?"

"Well, why not? You used it to save my skin, why not give the whole thing a real test drive? Then you can show me what you'd really do to me if you could." 

Aziraphale pinked. It was a very decadent idea...

"Let's." Said Aziraphale and he pulled himself away from Crowley's grasp. 

"Now?!" Crowley said, shocked.

 

* * *

 

 

The problem with body swapping when the Apocalypse has already been thwarted is that there are no distractions. They had driven like the devil himself was chasing the Bentley over to Crowley's flat since Aziraphale's quarters weren't quite suited and since they each used that time to privately scheme over what they would do. 

But now...

Now they were in the bedroom again and they had swapped and Crowley was trying to be quite stoic but there was a terrible realization coming over him because all of a sudden without the background dread of the world ending he could feel it. A strong sunshiny warmth radiating from Aziraphale as he stood stiffly staring at him through his own slitted pupils. He actually had to reach out for the edge of the bed to steady himself, though he tried to do it cooly there was a further wave of love that crashed over his senses as Aziraphale became concerned about him and by the time it was said and done he had just seated himself on the edge of the bed in defeat. 

"It's fine. I'm bloody fine. Your sensations are just different than mine and without the Apocalypse I noticed them is all." Crowley said swatting at Aziraphale to let him settle. 

"I know what you mean." Aziraphale had leaned in to help him and without thinking snaked out his tongue and realized how powerful his sense of smell was in Crowley's body. His own scent was much more amplified, but that was nothing compared to being Crowley. The fine cologne, the slick leather, the animal sort of heat to him, that smell, however faint, of smoke. 

He found that he was beginning to...oh, that was new. Aziraphale squirmed. The motion brought Crowley's attention.

"Ah." Said Crowley, looking up at his own crotch.

 "Angel, or should I say, Demon? Would you like to...show me?" The words were playful, but the tone was gentle.

Aziraphale blushed. He reached to pull out a pocket watch that was in a coat his body was wearing and missed utterly. 

"Crowley...I. How should I...?" Aziraphale said stepping back. 

Carefully, as if Aziraphale were a skittish colt, Crowley inched off the bed and to the side of Aziraphale.

"Angel, show me what you would do to me, if you could do anything. Touch me however you wish. If you want to show me, show me, and if you don't, say the word and I'll find something else to do. -And, if you need to switch back, if you become overwhelmed, say the word, and I'll take your hand and we'll stop." He smiled fondly. 

"That sounds amenable." Aziraphale said. He removed his jacket and after hesitating briefly, tossed it to the side.

Crowley miracled a beautiful chair to sit on so as not to restrict the show. Aziraphale sheepishly shuffled towards the bed and sort of stopped there. After a moment, Crowley spoke.

"How would you undress me, Angel?" Crowley attempted to arch an eyebrow and found that Aziraphale's eyebrows didn't move independently.

Aziraphale paused; considered.

"Actually, no, let me be You."

Aziraphale shook out his shoulders, took a deep breath, and assumed a posture with his pelvis jutting outward. 

"It seems very lewd of you, Angel, to watch yourself get off." Aziraphale said in Crowley's voice. He deliberately undid the top button of ~~Crowley's~~  his shirt. There was something about the display, about the way that Aziraphale called him Angel, that sent a warmth through him. He tipped his head back and said in Aziraphale's voice,

"Why, I am not! I am merely watching an artistic performance, a burlesque if you will. It's art!" He ran his finger under his collar as he spoke. 

"Art? Then I'd best give you a show!" Aziraphale laughed, a little nervously, and unzipped the fly of the long black trousers. With surprising cheek he plunged his hand down his pants and gave his equipment a few experimental squeezes. 

He was playing a part, but the equal parts embarrassment plus finally getting to touch Crowley there was too much and he arched his back and for a moment forgot where he was. He started groping wildly for a surface to lean on and opened his eyes only after finding the edge of the bed. 

Crowley was sporting Aziraphale's erection, strange really, for Crowley to see that. 

"I forgot myself." Aziraphale apologized.

"That's the point." Said Crowley. He removed the cream jacket which was absolutely too warm in this scenario.The sight of Aziraphale wearing his clothes, wearing his skin, God he ached all over to touch him. Instead, Crowley carefully, reverently, put his hand out and touched Aziraphale's prick through his trousers. 

"You-...are you?" Aziraphale tried to ask.

"Please continue the show." Crowley said, with a cough.

Aziraphale turned his head away and paused. Then, he carefully put his hand to the waistband of Crowley's expensive black briefs. 

"May I?" He asked.

"WWCD my dear, what would Crowley do?" Said Crowley.

Aziraphale lifted up the hood to take a peak, so to speak. 

There, under a perfectly manicured patch of red hair was a pair of exquisite cocks standing proudly to attention, stacked one atop the other with an impressive pointed ridge along their tips.

"Oh, my." Aziraphale gasped, pleased.

"You uh, like that?

"Goodness, how shall I ever stack up?" Aziraphale teased, made a gesture indicating his pun. His fingers accidentally brushed the fabric over one of the pricks currently in his possession. He shuddered visibly. Crowley's breath hitched. 

"Please, Mr. Fell, tempt me." Crowley palmed the cock hidden in his pants, but made no move to free it.

"Together then." He said and finally put his weight on the bed. With deft fingers he undid Crowley's shirt and tie, letting it hang open and loose. Crowley did the same, though because of Aziraphale's layers managed the vest and the bowtie in about the same amount of time. So Crowley miracled the buttons loose so they'd be about the same level of undressed. 

Then, Aziraphale let loose Crowley's wings and immediately folded them around himself tightly.

"I-i didn't really ask. Is it alright?" Aziraphale said softly.

"Yes." Crowley breathed.

"You've no idea how long I've wanted to be wrapped up in your wings." He peeked over the wingtips, blushing deep. 

"May I...?"

"Of course!"

"After that day in the rain, I often thought how much I'd wished I had just reached out to touch yours." Crowley admitted. He leaned forward in his chair and let the long white wings unfurl. He marveled that their wings, released, felt the same. Gently he cradled a section to his own cheek, petted the feathers, forgot his tough exterior.

"Aziraphale, I would be so slow. Like the light from the stars reaching Earth."

"But doesn't light travel fast?"

"Of bloody course it does! But it's so far away. I've stayed...I wanted to do that for you." Crowley said quietly. "Aziraphale? Could you, could you use that hand of mine and touch yourself? -Do it slowly, mind! Cup your cheek." Crowley said, voice low.

Aziraphale shivered and did as he was bidden, laying hand to cheek. 

"Now, let my lips kiss your hand, gentle like, easy does it." Crowley said, watching with rapt attention. He could see his mouth press carefully to a palm that was at once his own and Aziraphale's. 

"Now,  I would press kisses up your arm. I would linger, I would linger on your pulse. I would taste your life under your skin." Crowley said quiet and hoarse.

"Good." He said when Aziraphale did as bidden, eyes closed, drinking in the sensation of it.

"I would touch every inch of you. I would commit your shape to memory like a blind man." He said, squeezing his knees hard.

"...I would be hungry to do the same; to touch all the art in the gallery." Aziraphale whispered as he slid his hands across the thin body.

Crowley took the invitation and began an exploration of his own, fumbling his way around the heavenly body in his charge.

"When you were ready, then, and only then, would I worship you." Crowley whispered, his hand resting on his own thigh.

"Worship?" Aziraphale said.

"Angel, you're the closest thing I have to religion. The only thing on Earth worthy of devotion." 

There was a long pause.

"How would you do it?" Aziraphale said.

"I would use my tongue to give you praises." Crowley was nearly panting.

"But I have not the means, so I would find a way to make you make a joyful noise. I would use my hand, and I would grip you firmly. And slowly I would draw my hand up your length." As Crowley spoke, he drew his own cock forth from Aziraphale's trousers and gripped it, demonstrating what he meant. When Aziraphale followed suit and ran a practiced hand over the topmost cock a shiver of pleasure ran through him until it ended throbbing in his member as he realized that his angel was perhaps not as "pure" as he'd thought. 

"I'd be slow at first, I'd give you time to feel it out." Each continued his measured stroke. Each watching the other stroke his body from the inside out. Neither one realized that mortals required lube in this scenario; there is no unpleasant friction where fools in love for eons finally meet. 

"Then I'd pull harder. I'd go faster. I'd take my nails down you, give you pleasure with pain." He was breathing hard now as he watched Aziraphale gallantly try to work only the one cock, give up, and snake his other hand up to try for both. 

"And you would please me too. You would know you'd been felt in the shake of my voice and the hitch of my breath." 

"Yes." Aziraphale moaned.

"And I'd beg blessings from you. I'd kiss the flesh that I could reach. I'd pull your hair. I would try to possess you body and soul." Crowley said, both of them now working hard, straining even.

"I wouldn't build a temple for my god. You are enshrined only for me. I'm jealous of you. Your power. Your beauty. Mine. Only for me. I wouldn't stop until-" Aziraphale cried out cutting him off, and the sound he made brought Crowley over the edge as well, so that they both came to the summit at once each rippling their wings causing a curl of wind to flutter through the room. The glow of it all wrapped them up, and Crowley folded himself into the white wings. 

"Thank you, Crowley." Said Aziraphale. "I was afraid I'd never get the chance to-to be with you. Thank you for letting me use you like this." Aziraphale said.

"I'd be happy to be used." Crowley said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay. I do this fun thing where I am always writing at least two scenes at the same time.


End file.
